The Divine Comedy
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: The Joker muses on his relationship with Harley Quinn and the nature of love, and if those two are in any way connected in his mind.


**The Divine Comedy**

The Joker awoke in the middle of the night to feel Harley Quinn's small, warm body pressed against his, her arms wrapped gently but firmly around his neck, and her face nuzzled into his chest. For a moment he shut his eyes again, ready to go back to sleep, tightening his arm around her waist and cuddling her against him gently, smiling. Then he woke up, really woke up, and realized that this was all wrong. Why had he allowed the kid to fall asleep like this, hugging him and everything? Why hadn't he made her go get dressed, while he did the same, and why weren't they lying back to back as usual? This was uncomfortable, incredibly uncomfortable, not only because the position was an awkward one, with her crushing his arm slightly, but because the whole impression was one of mutual care and affection, and that was all wrong.

He should wrench himself away from her, maybe hit her for good measure, then roll over and go to sleep with his back to her. That was the sensible thing to do. But his eyes fell upon her little face, so serene and peaceful – no, those words didn't say enough. So deliriously happy. A face of utter bliss, her lips curled up in a grin that said more than words ever could. Her face seemed to actually be glowing with happiness. It was a strange sight to see – he had never been the cause of joy like that before. The idea that he was the one who made that face sparkle, that pretty little face, glowing because of him, was a strange and uncomfortable one. That pretty little face that belonged to him, that he could kiss or punch, depending on his mood, and which would still beam happily at him, whatever he did. That stunning, gorgeous face. She really was beautiful. A beautiful, soft, sweet, tender angel. _His _beautiful, soft, sweet, tender angel. He had never wanted anything like that, he never could have imagined anything like this. A girl like that, and a guy like him – just insane when you thought about it. And the way she loved him – obsessively, devotedly, it was crazy. Deep down he knew he didn't deserve her. No, deep down he knew he didn't want her. Who would want her? A clingy, pushy, useless, annoying little brat, always demanding attention, always wanting more, a greedy little thorn in his side who loved him beyond reason. He hated it sometimes, the way she just clung to him, the way she stayed, no matter how horribly he treated her. Too stupid to get that he just didn't want her. He hated her sometimes. The anger returned, and he was about to rip himself away from her and punch her, when she sighed in sleep and snuggled deeper into him, her smile widening, her face radiating the purest joy.

And he found he couldn't move. He found he couldn't do anything but stare at her, a strange feeling creeping over him. He had never loved anyone – at least, he didn't think so. It was hard to remember stuff before the accident, but this feeling was new and strange and horrible. He suddenly felt…weak, that must be it. Vulnerable. Scared. These were alien feelings to him – they had been for a long time. He _was_ scared, though; he dimly remembered fear, and this was it. He was frightened of the thought that he might love her, that he might grow to need her in time, that he might not be able to function properly without her. And then if he lost her…which was entirely possible, people died all the time, that was life's big joke on humanity. The world was a dangerous place. If he loved her, and lost her, it would cripple him. It might destroy him. Letting in this weakness could be disastrous, could wound him so he'd never recover. He couldn't allow that to happen. He was the Joker, for God's sake. He always recovered. Nothing could destroy him, not even Batman. And he wouldn't let her do it.

He should have stopped it when it all began, before it got out of hand like this. But it had been a fun joke, an enjoyable experience for a while. He had intended to just use Harley to escape from Arkham and then kill her, but she had seemed so keen on the whole Harley Quinn idea, and he had never had a really devoted sidekick before, so he saw no reason to cut short what might be a very fun and interesting game. And she had been very impressive as a criminal. She worked really hard to please him all the time – all her attention and energy was focused on making him happy. That was nice, at first. But she had always wanted more than just compliments or little pettings. She had wanted him. She was greedy – his approval, however frequently it was given, was never enough. She wanted his love as well. And he never should have given her that. That was the problem. That was when all this had started. Why couldn't the little brat just have been satisfied with him saying well done? How had it come to this? How had it come to both of them lying naked and vulnerable in each other's arms? When had they changed from master and slave to lovers?

Not that they weren't still master and slave, of course. The power in their relationship rested with him, and always would. That was essential. But in his mind he had lost some power tonight, by not ordering her away to get dressed, by not turning away from her, by lying together, like this, like other, normal couples. Like equals. They weren't equals, not in any way. He always had the power, and he always would. He always had, since the beginning. He had been the one who instigated their encounters in Arkham. He had been the one who manipulated her mind, who changed her from his shrink Dr. Harleen Quinzel into Harley Quinn. All that she had become since then was his doing. She was his creation.

But like all creations, she had somehow got out of hand. Not that she had ever turned on her creator – the dame was fiercely loyal to him. But in a way she had. In a way she had made her creator weak. And he supposed she would destroy him if he let her, like Frankenstein or something. He had the power to stop that, though. He had to destroy her before she destroyed him. He should probably kill her. He always enjoyed killing. But the idea of killing didn't seem as fun as it usually did. That was the problem. He didn't want to kill her. She had somehow become special to him, more than just a punchline to a joke, like the rest of humanity. And that was dangerous.

It hadn't seemed dangerous at first. It had just seemed fun. Even the first time, when he was just using her to escape from Arkham, it was fun. He wasn't a guy with normal urges in that way – he had thought the sex was fun because it was a power game, and he had won it. He kept thinking that, when he would casually screw her just because he could. Because it was funny. Because she would let him use her, because she was so monumentally dependent on him that she would give everything to him if he wanted, her mind, her body, her pride. It was funny to demean and humiliate her like that. It was hilarious how much he owned her, how she had become more of a toy than a person, his toy, his bitch, his whore.

But lately he had found himself thinking about her as more than a toy. He had found himself thinking about _it _more than he ever had before. The dame turned him on, and he didn't like that. He didn't like people having power over him like that, having control over his body against his will. He wasn't Harley. Normally any urges he had in that way related to violence and mayhem and mutiliation, but lately those hadn't been the only avenues open to him. Lately it was the way she looked and the things she said and did. Sometimes he would be working on a scheme and find himself thinking about her. Sometimes he caught himself fantasizing about her during a job, when she was taking out a group of guys or shooting up a building. And sometimes, like last night, he had just seen her, lying in bed and smiling up at him, with her beautiful, big, blue, sincere, shining eyes gazing at him in adoration. And that had been enough.

That was all wrong. That was weak. This was weak. It needed to be stamped out immediately. The joke had gone on too long, and it wasn't funny anymore. He had been too tender, too affectionate lately – he needed to regain power and discipline and control. He nodded firmly in resolution, and ripped her arms from around his neck. She awoke sleepily, and beamed at him. "Hi, puddin'," she murmured.

He looked back into those adoring, trusting eyes, and grew furious. Without a word, he punched her hard across the face. "Don't call me puddin'!" he hissed, continuing to hit her. She took it all without complaint, barely crying out, used to this kind of treatment by now. But her big, blue eyes dripped tears, tears that she was unable to suppress.

He didn't like the silence. He seized her chin in his hands. "Why aren't you screaming?" he hissed. "Don't it hurt enough?"

"Yeah, puddin'," she breathed through her tears. "Yeah, it hurts a lot."

"Then scream, you stupid, dumb bitch!" he shouted, furiously. She obeyed because he told her to. He kept beating her, trying to enjoy the sound of her screams, as he always had. Trying to enjoy the look of pain in her eyes, as he always did. This was his creation, and he could do whatever he wanted to her. She could never hurt him if he hurt her more, if he broke her before she could break him…

He stopped suddenly. That sounded like desperation to him. That sounded like fear. Was he doing this to her because he was afraid of her? That was all wrong, if so. That would never do. That wasn't funny – it was just embarrassing. He refused to be afraid of her, or of anything. He was the Joker, and he didn't know what fear was. If he was going to hurt her, it was going to be because he enjoyed it, and for no other reason. And he wasn't enjoying it right now.

She looked up at him in confusion. He gently gathered her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. He was the Joker. He wasn't afraid of anything, certainly not this tiny, weak, little creature. What harm could she actually do him, his little pet? She was a toy, a loyal dog, who would never turn on her master no matter what. So what did he have to fear from her? Nothing. Fear only had as much power as people gave it. And the Joker wasn't afraid of anything. Not even love.

He kissed her tenderly, stroking back the hair from her bruised and battered face. "Harley," he whispered. "Harley, Harley, Harley. My stupid, silly, little baby."

"What have I done, Mr. J?" she murmured.

"You ain't done nothing, kid," he chuckled. "Daddy just had a bad dream, that's all. Sometimes at night things seem bigger than they really are, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know, Mr. J," she whispered.

"And for a while there some things in Daddy's head seemed like really big issues," he continued. "But they weren't, not really. Even Daddy can be silly sometimes, baby. It's over now though, so let's just go back to sleep."

"Ok, Mr. J," she whispered. She tentatively put her arms around him again as he lay back down. His arm came around her waist again as he cuddled her against him.

"Harley," he breathed, nuzzling her ear.

"Yeah, puddin'?" she murmured.

He opened his eyes to look down into her wide, adoring ones. He smiled and kissed her gently. "I love you, Harley Quinn," he whispered.

Those eyes widened even more, and became even more adoring. "Oh, Mr. J," she gasped. "I love you too."

He chuckled again, then lay back down, shutting his eyes. "Night, kiddo," he murmured.

There. He had given the fish the bait, and she had swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. There was no wriggling off the hook now – when a fish wriggled on a hook they only impaled themselves further on the spike. This would only make the dame cling on even harder, so he could treat her even worse. There was no escape for her now that he had said that. She was his, and his alone. Love wasn't anything to be afraid of – it was, like anything else the world, neither good nor bad on its own, just a useful tool. It was a cage for Harley, a cage that would keep her his prisoner forever. Even if he handed her the keys to freedom, she would never take it. She loved her cage. In her eyes it was a palace. In her eyes he was the hero. In her eyes, this was all perfect.

And just before he drifted off to sleep, he found himself agreeing with her.

**The End**


End file.
